Doing Nothing Well

A dear friend of mine is dying.

I'm living life and planning a wedding and building a future; in the middle of all this building and planning and living, my friend is dying.

And I am heartbroken.

I have been creating space lately for meditation.  Only ten to fifteen minutes, three to four days a week.  I sit silently, focusing on my breath, scanning my body, noticing and welcoming any sensations and the feelings lurking within them.

I keep thinking about how meditation can be used in my work as a chaplain.  I keep thinking about writing about the practice of doing nothing well - how this is the foundation of all other practices and how it is the most difficult of all practices.

But what do I know about doing nothing well?  I only do nothing well for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, three or four days a week.  Oh sure, there is the one to two minutes sprinkled throughout my daily life; but, how much do I really know?

My friend is dying and I am heartbroken and I'm practicing how to do nothing well because it is the most important thing - so important that I want to share with my friends how important it is to learn to do nothing well.  I find that if I am not careful, I do not do nothing, but I instead do millions of things. Many of these things I do well, but many just happen because I show up with a body and make motions and I have a particular knack.  I cannot, however, say that I am always present in the doing of these things and that is a loss.

So, earlier this week, as I was planning our evening meals, I decided to make Chicken Tikka Masala on Thursday night.  And then Wednesday night came and I was at home for the night and we did not have enough fresh ginger and we did not have enough whole cumin seeds.  Thursday after visiting my friend who is dying - and with whom I managed to sit and do nothing very well for several minutes before we were joined by others and we sang hymns and we partook in Communion and we laughed and people shared their love for this friend of ours and I sat there and cried and cried and cried.  I kissed my friend goodbye, not knowing when or if I would see him again and I went to get a hair cut and buy spices and pick up that dreaded herb cilantro.

Late after dinner on Thursday night, I decided that if I was going to practice doing nothing well, I might as well practice how to do one thing well.  I carefully measured the cumin seeds and the coriander seeds.  I poured them into a small skillet and toasted them over a flame.  I set them aside to cool and measured the smoked paprika, the turmeric, the cayenne.  I touched and smelled and tasted each spice in turn.  When the cumin and coriander where sufficiently cooled, I put them in my spice grinder and gave them an extended run.  I added them to the bowl of other spices, touching, smelling, tasting.  I set everything aside for the night.

This morning, after breakfast, I continued.  I grated garlic and ginger, reveling in the feeling of the firm cloves shrinking between my finger and the box grater, delighting in the stringy remnant of ginger left behind.  I prepared the marinade, added the chicken, place everything in the refrigerator, and headed to work, where I let other people know how painful it is to watch a beloved friend die.  At work, I let others minister to me throughout the day.  And I cried.  A lot.

When I got home, I carried on - slicing onions, feeling them beneath my fingers as I separated the segments, the knife heavy in my hand.  I grated more garlic, noticing how the papery skin of subsequent cloves stuck to my garlic-coated fingers.  I carefully peeled and grated more ginger.  I began to sauté the onions and I paused each time to take a picture - overdone in the world of food-porn, I know, but it reminded me to look and see and feel and smell and touch and taste what is here now - to be fully present in the moment rather than cooking by rote.

I squeezed the lemon and delighted in the way the sticky juice and slick lemon oil coated my hands, as I cupped one hand beneath the other, gingerly moving to the sink to wash them without splattering the floor.

Tonight's dinner is sure to be delicious - I have used the recipe before.  The rice is cooking and the chicken is marinating.  Shortly, I will broil it to achieve a good char before chopping it, after which it will finish cooking in the sauce.

I hope I remember to sit and eat and be present at this meal.  I hope I remember to be present for each moment of my life.  I am not always good at this.  That is why I continue to practice how to do nothing well.